


Farm to Table

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Awkward First Times, Fluff and Smut, Gardens & Gardening, Inanimate Object Porn, M/M, Tree Houses, Vegetables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyle appropriates Stan's prize zucchini for his own pleasure, with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farm to Table

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun tagging this. It's cracky smut with S/K fluff mixed in, basically.

"So this is my pride and joy," Stan says when he leads Kyle out into the backyard. They're both carrying wine glasses, though neither of them can legally drink. It's Stan's mother's wine. She's joined Randy in Texas for a geology conference, and Stan insists that she wouldn't mind them drinking her wine, even if she was home. Stan's twenty-first birthday is only a few months away.

"This?" Kyle says when they come to stand beside the backyard garden, and then he feels badly for his tone. "No, but it's nice."

"You should have seen it at the start of the summer," Stan says. "All of this was just -- seed packets!"

"Wow."

It's an eight by four section of the yard, marked off by railroad ties and overflowing with leafy produce. Kyle toes one of the railroad ties and imagines Stan hefting it back here: hoisting it up onto his shoulder, grunting and sweaty. 

"I thought you'd appreciate this," Stan says, squatting down to fondle a tomato. "Since you're a chef now."

"I'm not really a chef. I've only had three months of real training, and I've got another year of school--" 

"Well, you know what I mean." Stan is still touching the tomato, squeezing it gently. "You could pick something, if you want. To cook. I guess they have better produce in California." 

"Not necessarily." Kyle sits on the railroad tie that lines the front of the garden, the smell of the tomato plant's leaves and the recently mowed lawn reminding him so strongly of their summers here as children that he feels like he's in a swoon. He remembers sitting up in the tree house and watching Stan mow the lawn when he was eleven, the first year he was trusted to do it himself. Stan had a spreading V of sweat on the back of his t-shirt, and Kyle had felt badly for not helping, but it wasn't his yard, and Stan was the one who got ten dollars when the job was done, though he did spend some of it on ice cream that he shared with Kyle. "Is that thing still structurally sound?" Kyle asks, looking up at the tree house, which is sort of dark and foreboding in the fading sunlight. 

"I don't know," Stan says. "The roof's all rotted." 

"That's sad!"

"Eh." Stan rises to his feet and surveys the garden. It's almost eight o'clock but still hot outside, a humid early August, and Kyle can smell Stan's sweat, faintly. "See anything you want to cook?" 

"Hmm." Kyle stands and examines the selection, pleased by the invitation. He just got home last night and had felt a little stupid texting Stan, since they hadn't spoken since some vague plans to get together during Stan's spring break that never actually panned out, but Stan was happy to hear from him, and now he's generously offering Kyle his produce. Kyle brushes his fingertips over everything: plump cherry tomatoes, a couple of pretty eggplants that are still green on the bottom, skinny yellow squash and a few anemic-looking string beans. The most successful crop has taken over much of the left side of the garden: a sprawling zucchini vine. The leaves are large and shiny, the vine itself covered in spiky little hairs. Kyle pokes through the shade under the leaves, examining the zucchinis. 

"Those things got huge," Stan says as Kyle handles the biggest one, brushing soil off of it. "I've got way more than I can use, if you want some."

"Yeah, I -- okay." Kyle almost doesn't want to pluck the zucchini he's holding, though it's ripe and heavy, ready to harvest. It's bizarrely beautiful to him, almost arousing, and this annoys him, because he knows it's got to do with Stan's proximity more than the phallic shape of the fruit. He'd had such a devastating crush on Stan for most of his life in South Park that he'd nearly hated Stan for it by the time he left for college. His feelings have mellowed a lot since then, but there's still something about being near to Stan that makes him feel raw and hyper-sexual, as if he's reverted to that pudgy thirteen-year-old who got erections every time he caught a glimpse of his best friend's dark arm hair.

Kyle brings the zucchini into the house and washes it, shrugging dismissively when Stan asks him if he wants to take more of them. This monster will be plenty for the recipe he has in mind. 

"It's a surprise," Kyle says, still washing the thing, enjoying the feeling of its smooth skin under the water. "I'll bring it over tomorrow. Unless you've got plans?"

"Nah, no plans." Stan is lingering kind of close, watching Kyle handle the zucchini. "I've been, you know. Everybody's left town, and nobody comes back for the summer anymore. It's just been me and the vegetables for months."

They drink more wine. Darkness falls outside, the bugs begin to sing, and Stan makes a pot of instant mac and cheese. He's joking about its lousiness the whole time, as if Kyle must be horrified by it. Kyle is training to be a chef, but he still appreciates junk food like this, and it's comforting to eat it out of the pot with Stan, there at the kitchen table. When the wine is finished, Kyle wonders if he should walk home or stay to watch late night TV. He eyes the zucchini, which is sitting on the counter beside the sink. 

"I'd better hit the road," he says. "I'll come over tomorrow -- around the same time?"

"Sure, anytime. Thanks for, uh." Stan looks at the empty mac and cheese pot, which has grown crusty on the kitchen table. "Just, it's good to see you, man."

Kyle carries the zucchini back to his house, feeling a little drunk and giddy as he walks the dark, quiet streets of suburban South Park. He glances down at the zucchini from time to time, rubbing his thumb over the coarse nub on the skinnier end. Stan was looking good, as usual. Kyle imagines himself describing Stan's appearance to his mother, though she'll surely be in bed by the time he gets back: _he's got stubble on his cheeks, not quite a beard, just a couple of days' worth of being lazy about shaving. It looks good on him, and his hair is better now, shorter, but not too short. He's gotten thicker, I think, but it's muscle. He's been gardening - maybe that's a good workout._ Kyle tightens his grip on the zucchini, thinking of Stan's sturdy chest and arms. He'd always been thin in school, but since leaving for college he's filled out. Kyle feels slightly idiotic as he approaches his parents' house, but also tipsy enough not to judge himself for backsliding into his old Stan-coveting habits.

The house is dark when he comes in, except for the light over the stove back in the kitchen. Ike is out with friends and Kyle's parents are in bed, hopefully only to sleep. He's grown unaccustomed to occasionally hearing incriminating noises from the end of the hall; he's not sure how he stomached it as a kid. At the foot of the stairs he pauses, considering whether he should put the zucchini in the fridge. It seems wrong somehow, as if the thing will be too vulnerable there. Ike could come home high and gobble it up. Kyle takes it upstairs, to his bedroom.

He puts it on his desk and sits down to check email. There's nothing important, just a few advertisements from mailing lists that he should unsubscribe from. He drums his fingers on his keyboard and glances at the zucchini. Its dark green skin is so pretty, almost jewel-toned, and he finds himself wanting to lick it. There's something appealing about the fact that it's rounded but also has subtle geometric ridges. He left his vibrator in California, not wanting to travel with it or bring it into his childhood home. But now he's just being ridiculous. He looks back to his computer screen, blushing and seeing nothing. His thighs twitch under his desk when his cock begins to get hard. He could look at porn, but he usually hates it. He's always needed something more visceral to get off on. In high school he used his fingers on himself, but he's never liked that as much as having something else up there. It's too dirty, in multiple ways, reaching into his own ass to pleasure himself.

Kyle groans and gets up from the computer, beginning to undress. It's not like he's seriously considering it. He's not _that_ drunk. But at the same time, the thought of going to bed without being fucked feels excruciating, the way it used to in high school, when he knew he had no chance. If he was home in California he could at least delude himself by going out and looking for a hook up. Sometimes that leads to more than just a delusion, though it rarely leads to sex that's actually satisfying. He sighs and flops into his bed, naked and fully hard now.

He decides to distract himself with a shower, and it's warm enough in the house to make him consider a cold one, but he can't go through with it once he's in the bathroom, in his robe. He makes the water hot and steps under it, shivering with pleasure already, submitting to the inevitability of revisiting one of his oldest fantasies: the idea of cleaning himself in preparation for Stan's cock.

He's not sure when this started, but it's a reliable old chestnut that still makes him moan low at the back of his throat, just quiet enough to allow the shower to camouflage the sound. It could only ever work here, in his childhood home; he'd certainly never do this in his apartment, with Stan clear across the country. But here, the fantasy works: Stan is waiting for him in his bedroom. Stan has - surprise! - been in love with him all along, and they've been making out on Kyle's bed, dry humping and murmuring promises about the future against each other's lips, and now Kyle has slipped out to prepare himself for their first time. It's a cheesy, childish fantasy, not the kind of thing that usually turns him on, but for some reason it works so well here, with his soapy fingers digging in. He braces his elbow on the shower wall and closes his eyes, stretching himself until the soap burns, making himself as clean as he can for the forthcoming honor of Stan's cock. The veil of the fantasy is pierced when he considers that this time -- maybe -- he's cleaning himself not for the fantasy of Stan's cock but for the actuality of Stan's zucchini.

He tries to push the thought away and get into it the way he used to, when he would imagine Stan waiting patiently in his bed, naked and touching himself, pink with the flush of virginal anxiety. Kyle used to be able to get very deeply into this fantasy even after he knew for certain that Stan had lost his actual virginity to Shelly's awkward friend Lindsey. Now that old fantasy is fading fast, and Kyle is thinking instead about the zucchini. It's bigger than any actual cock that he's taken, and bigger than his vibrator. Plus, the give would be different: organic but not human, inanimate but only recently plucked from its life-giving vine. Kyle starts to snicker, his face still pressed to his wet arm while he works himself open with his other hand. It's funny, but there's also a level of sad sincerity to his desirous feelings for that zucchini: Stan grew it, lovingly. He made a little home for it with railroad ties and fertile soil, planted and nurtured a seed. Kyle moans, kind of loud, and extracts his fingers. He can't wait any longer. He washes his hand thoroughly before grabbing the detachable showerhead and bringing it down between his legs. By the time he's rinsed himself out he's aching for something big, hard, and cock-shaped up there.

The house is still quiet as he creeps back to his room, a bottle of baby oil he found under the bathroom sink hidden inside his robe. He's grateful that his mother didn't pop her head into the bathroom to ask him when he was showering at midnight, and that Ike hasn't come home and plopped himself on Kyle's bed to invite him to play video games. He's in a very specific head-space right now and doesn't want to be interrupted. He locks his door and sets the baby oil on his desk, beside the zucchini. He's embarrassingly relieved that it's still there, as if it might have abandoned him as Stan always seemed to have done when Kyle returned from his fantasy in the shower to find his bed empty.

He turns out all the lights and makes sure the curtains are shut tightly against the moon. This is not a visual experience, though he has been enjoying the look of the zucchini up til now. The thought of looking down and actually seeing it protruding from his ass is too humiliating to bear, even in his already compromised state. He settles into bed and touches himself for a while, the zucchini and baby oil on his bedside table. He's nervous about getting started, and it's troubling him, because there's no reason to be. He's alone here, safe in his childhood bed, but he also feels as if Stan must know what's going on somehow, and like he'll fail to perform adequately for this thing that Stan made for him. He reminds himself that what he likes about bottoming is the lack of performing required, and he reaches for the zucchini.

Though he knows it's going to be difficult, he will have to insert the fat end first. The thinner end has the prickly nub where the fruit was connected to the vine, and he can't slice that off, lest the innards become compromised with germs. This way, he can peel off the skin and know that no part of the zucchini that actually touched the inner walls of his ass will end up in his recipe. He's nervous as he feels around the dimensions of the fat end, and his heart begins to pound when he puts it in his mouth. It's wide enough to make his jaw ache, but the texture feels very good on his tongue. He suckles on just a few thick inches of it, his eyes fluttering shut as he imagines this avatar for Stan's dick experiencing pleasure from the teasing heat of his mouth.

He tries to fit more in his mouth, his lips straining around it. While he enjoys being passive during penetration, he does love the more active challenge of sucking cock. He likes the feeling of having his mouth burstingly full, the way drool gathers in shameful quantities at the corners of his mouth, and bringing a man to orgasm with his mouth, swallowing it down. It's delightfully degrading in the particular way that Kyle enjoys with a trusted partner. It saddens him that he's only trusted a few of them over the past three years, and therefore has rarely had the opportunity to do the kind of cock sucking he likes, which is the rough sort, on his knees and begging for more with his eyes.

When he begins to feel like a coward for not having pressed the zucchini to his ass yet, he reaches for the oil. He slicks his hole first, dipping his fingers in only shallowly. He's breathing hard now, his nipples stiff despite the heat of the night. He feels almost sacrilegious as he puts oil on the zucchini, hoping that it won't seep into the skin and tarnish the flavor. Staring up at the square of moonlight on his bedroom ceiling, he spreads his legs wide and presses the thick end between his ass cheeks, groaning when it rubs against his hole. He's been so preoccupied with his internship all summer, going to bed early and alone. It's been way too long since he's had anything but his overly familiar vibrator down there. Half the time, with that thing, he just massages himself while he beats off. He doesn't really like the feeling of that crass machine inside him, no matter how advanced his self-warming silicone model is. This will be different: this is a thing that grew and lived, something that Stan fertilized and watered until it was big enough to stretch Kyle wide and fill him deeply.

Kyle experiences a moment of panic as he tries to work the first and fattest part of the zucchini into himself, and it's not just due to its size, which is bigger than any cockhead he's ever taken. Suddenly he's consumed with the fear that once he gets this thing in, he might lose his grip on it. It's unlikely but possible: it could be sucked into his body, slippery and out of reach, and he could be subjected to the humiliation of having a zucchini removed from his ass at the hospital in the small town where everyone knows him and would surely hear about it. To prevent that, he hunts around in the bedside table's drawer for a pair of unopened shoelaces that he prays are still there. They are, mercifully. Breathing in nervous huffs, Kyle carefully ties one end of the shoe lace around the nub on the thinner end of the zucchini. It provides the perfect ridge for this safety measure. He leaves the other end of the shoelace loose on the bed and resumes his position, taking a deep breath.

"Stan," he murmurs, because he needs a little mental lubrication as well. "I'm scared. It's -- you're so big."

 _But you need it, don't you?_ says the Stan in his head, softly and while caressing his hot cheek. _You need to be filled with my big thing, Kyle, isn't that right?_

Kyle is pretty sure Stan wouldn't actually talk like this during sex. He'd be stammering and sweet, probably apologetic at all the wrong moments, but Kyle would accept that and maybe even cherish it. 

"I do need it," Kyle whispers, feeling stupid but less skittish. "I've -- been thinking about it since I saw how big it was. Did you know, Stan, when we were sitting there eating mac and cheese? Did you know I picked your fruit so I could take it home and fuck myself with it?"

 _Of course_ , pretend Stan says, and Kyle whimpers, because that might actually be true. _Now put that thing in your hungry ass, Kyle. Press it in deep while I watch you_.

Kyle has to lift his other hand to his mouth as he breaches himself, biting down around his finger at the initial pain. He tries to relax and breathe through it, feeling precome pooling from his flagging erection onto his stomach. It's incredibly, ridiculously big, and Kyle feels virgin tight in comparison, too small. He perseveres, just enough so that it won't slip out as soon as his ass tries to clench around the intrusion, and he cries around the finger in his mouth, his heart slamming. Once he's worked a few inches in, he takes deep breaths and blinks the moisture out his eyes, trying to relax. It's so big that the pain itself is arousing. It's absurd -- from the start, it's the absurdity of this whole undertaking that's been part of what's turning him on.

 _You're doing so well_ , imaginary Stan praises, hovering between Kyle's legs so that he can watch. That's the odd thing about this fantasy: Kyle isn't pretending the zucchini is Stan's dick, he's pretending that Stan is watching him put a zucchini into himself with enraptured approval. _You look so hot with that in you_ , Stan would say. _God, you're open so wide_.

Kyle groans and works a few more inches in slowly, tugging on his dick with his free hand. He's still half-hard, aroused and trying to adjust. The feeling is good, distantly. He likes the texture and shape of this thing inside him, the subtle ridges providing an interesting contrast to the bulbous head. He'll get it just deep enough to do prostate stimulation, he decides, and he wraps the loose end of the shoelace around his fingers for traction.

For a while he just lies there with the zucchini halfway in, breathing deeply and touching his chest and dick as he absorbs the overwhelming fullness of his ass. It feels a bit dangerous, in the alluring way that anal sex always has. Kyle lost his backdoor virginity when he was nineteen, to a fellow Food Science major named Tyler who fucked him two more times after that and then stopped calling him. Kyle was kind of relieved, because Tyler was an experienced fucker who scared him with his dominating certainty in bed. Despite this, Kyle had dashed out the door every time Tyler came calling, wanting to go back to that scary place that also felt so good, exhilarating like nothing else. He pulls the zucchini out slightly and pushes it back in, his cock throbbing in his hand. 

_You like that?_ the Stan in his head asks. He sounds slightly surprised, like the real Stan might, politely inferring that he can't imagine why. Kyle nods and pulls the zucchini outward again, inserting it more deeply on the way back in. 

"Stan," he says, flushing all over at the sound of his own broken voice. 

_What's wrong, dude?_

"I'm scared," Kyle says, whispering. It feels good to say so, and he squeezes his cock, beginning to sweat. 

_Why?_

"Because - ah. It's so big. But I want it in me, Stan, I want it all in me." Kyle mutters this under his breath, keeping his eyes pinched shut tightly, not wanting to see that Stan isn't really there to reassure him.

 _You can do it,_ Stan would say. _Be brave. It's gonna feel so good on your g-spot_.

Kyle prefers to refer to it as a g-spot when he's actually having sex. The word 'prostate' has always sounded too clinical in the heat of passion. The only partner he ever confessed this to made fun of him for it, then wouldn't stop referring to Kyle's ass as his 'boy pussy,' which he found revolting. They broke up over it.

"Okay." Kyle takes a deep breath, clenching around the zucchini, then exhales. He wishes Stan were really at the end of his bed, even if it meant showing him this ludicrous display. He wants Stan to hold the shoelace for him. "Here it goes."

 _Fuck that ass nice and hard,_ imaginary Stan says, breathless with anticipation. _Punish your little hole with that thing I grew for you_.

Kyle's lungs constrict when he pushes the zucchini in further, gripping the nub-end in his fist, the shoelace wrapped around his fingers and cutting into his palm. He pushes his breath out in a choppy whimper, tilting the thing inside him until it brushes his spot -- prostate, whatever, now he doesn't give a fuck what it's called. It's pure, white hot pleasure that shoots through him like he's being illuminated from the inside. He screams soundlessly, his head thrown back as he drags the zucchini out and then presses it back in, not cautiously now but with wanton need, grinding it against his prostate. It's slippery and he's being reckless, but he can't help it: he scrambles up onto his knees and starts to ride it, gripping the base as tightly as he can, fucking himself down onto it with his eyes closed and his mouth open, sweat dripping from his curls.

 _That's so good, isn't it?_ pretend Stan says, and Kyle nods wildly, spreading his knees so that Stan can watch his heavy cock bounce with every thrust. Kyle grabs it with his free hand, whining. _You want to let go of the end, don't you?_ Stan says. Kyle whines again, because he does want that, and he's felt the shoelace slip off of the end of the zucchini, his safety net gone. Even if he did let go, he couldn't keep fucking himself like this with nothing to hold the zucchini to the bed. _We should have left it on the vine_ , Stan says, _And let you fuck it that way. Yeah, you would have liked that, wouldn't you? Taking down your pants right there in my backyard, working that thing into yourself while I watched, slamming yourself back onto it while those spikes on the vine scratched at your raw little hole._

Kyle cries out and comes, hoping that he hasn't been too loud. He can't be sure: he's elsewhere, out of body, spraying all over the end of his bed. Still, he keeps his presence of mind enough to maintain his grip on the zucchini, and as he tips forward onto his elbows he works it out a bit, making sure that he can. There's resistance: his ass is still spasming from his climax, clenching as if it wants to suck the thing back in. Kyle works it free slowly, drooling onto his arm, his eyes closed. He groans as the fattest part leaves him, dragging out over the burning rim of his hole in a way that makes his spent cock twitch. He slumps onto his side, exhausted, unable to believe how well-fucked he feels, his ass gaping and his innermost places still tingling from the shape of the zucchini. He reaches back to tease his fingertips around his hole, hissing at the sensitivity, then begins to clench around the new empty feeling, both because it feels good and because he needs to do some recovering, lest his tightness be compromised for good. When something feels off he realizes that it's the lack of come leaking out of him, which shouldn't feel strange at all, since he's never let anyone fuck him without a condom.

For at least a few minutes he passes out like that, facing the end of his bed and slumped onto his side, his hand resting loosely over his sore hole, as if to protect it from any further intrusions. He wakes up in a puddle of drool and shifts about tiredly, not too achy on the inside yet, though he knows he'll be wincing every time he sits tomorrow. 

He wants to go to sleep immediately, but he can't leave the slick, dirty zucchini on his sheets. He rouses himself, beginning to feel the weight of shame in his bones, puts on his robe and sneaks the zucchini into the bathroom, where he washes it thoroughly and examines its skin for nicks. It seems to have survived the ordeal unharmed. He cleans the baby oil out of himself as best he can; he'll need to shower to do it properly, but that can wait until morning. After washing his hands twice he splashes his face with cool water and dries the zucchini with his bath towel. Back in his room, he hides it on the windowsill, behind the curtain. 

"Goodnight, sweet prince," he says, making fun of himself, though also kind of glad that something of Stan's is here. He looks toward the end of the bed, where he's flipped over the sheets to hide the come stains. Before drifting off to sleep he imagines Stan sitting there, smiling at him fondly.

 _It's just really good to see you_ , Stan says, and Kyle feels those words sinking warmly into his chest, because Stan did say that, and he meant it. Kyle could tell.

He sleeps late the next morning, relishing the opportunity to do so after three long months of getting up early to do prep work at the restaurant. His first summer of training went okay, though he was afraid of the head chef and went home in tears twice. He was at least able to hold his sobs in until he was alone in his car, both times, and his resolve to work in a kitchen wasn't broken. He's still going to finish his Food Science degree, but he hopes he won't have to use it to work for some soulless snack food company in search of the ideal 'mouth feel' for a salt-loaded non-food. He started culinary school in a panic last year when he realized that corporate hackery would probably be his post-graduate fate. He's not even sure why he decided to major in Food Sciences, except that he really loves to cook, and finally he had to admit that it's all he wants to do, despite the lower pay grade.

When he gets up it's almost noon. He gropes for the zucchini, taking it from the windowsill and hoping that he can get it downstairs without anyone realizing that it spent the night in his room. He holds it up in the sunlight from the window, giving its lovely skin a few final caresses. Though it's stupid, he's a little sad that he's about to peel it and cut it up. He cheers himself with the thought of Stan eating his creation later. The idea arouses him, and he jerks off to a fantasy of Stan rimming him enthusiastically. Beside him on the bed, the zucchini basks in the sun during its final moments.

His mother is folding laundry in front of the TV and his father is at work. Ike will likely sleep until two or three, so Kyle is safe to smuggle the zucchini into the kitchen without being questioned. He checks to make sure they have enough eggs and gets to work. He's had a lot of success with zucchini bread in the past, though generally he's not that good at baking. He'll leave out the nuts, because Stan doesn't like them, and he's happy to see that his mother's well-stocked pantry contains both dried cranberries and raisins. He learned to cook from his mother. Perhaps because of that, doing so has always been an instant comfort. He's in a good mood as he preheats the oven and gathers his ingredients, not feeling particularly guilty about what went on last night. He peels the zucchini completely, and washes the soft inside part a few times for good measure.

"What are you making?" Sheila asks, coming in when Kyle is greasing his loaf pan. 

"Zucchini bread. Stan gave me that, from his garden." Kyle nods to the peeled zucchini, which seems so sad and vulnerable now that it's lost its skin. It's hard to believe that thing is the reason his ass is aching this morning. 

"Oh, Stan has a garden!" Sheila says, and Kyle feels a little uncomfortable when she picks up the peeled zucchini to examine it. "How cute. Sharon told me he's changed his major to horticulture." 

"Yeah, he wants to work on a vineyard or something." Kyle can picture it clearly: Stan picking grapes, dressed in hippie garb somewhere in Sonoma Valley, playing his guitar by a goddamn bonfire at night. It makes Kyle grin, and he can't help but imagine himself working in a little restaurant nearby, laying his head on Stan's shoulder and gazing at the bonfire with him, tolerating the music and the other hippies. For Stan, he would, but that's ridiculous. Stan is straight, and there's no guarantee that either of them will end up in California, let alone the same town. Kyle knows they'll probably drift apart for good after college ends and their careers solidify outside of South Park. It breaks his heart, and he tries to pour his whole lifetime of love for Stan into this batch of bread, if not his longing, and never mind the sex he had with the star ingredient.

Grating the zucchini makes him feel guilty, as if he's destroying a handmade gift, but he's only transforming it. When the batter is ready he pours it into the loaf pan, slides it into the oven and sets the timer for an hour. Ike emerges from upstairs looking hungover, and Kyle plays video games with him while the bread bakes. 

"Bring me a slice," Ike says when the timer goes off.

"Nope," Kyle says, slightly panicked at the thought that someone other than Stan might eat some of the bread made from a zucchini he fucked, as if that would alter a magic spell. "This is for Stan." 

"Ooh, Stan. Sorry, I didn't realize you were making him a valentine." 

"Shut up." 

Ike knows that Kyle loved Stan all through high school. Kyle never told him, but he didn't need to. He suspects his parents know, too, and Stan probably did back then. He's endlessly grateful that Stan tolerated him anyway, and that he still does. He pulls out the bread and nearly gets misty-eyed at how good it smells. A toothpick comes out cleanly, and he leaves it on the counter to cool, keeping the corner of his eye on it as he resumes his game with Ike.

It's torture to wait until evening to bring it over to Stan's house, and Kyle can only make it to five o'clock. He packs up the bread in some fruity red baking foil leftover from Christmas and ties it shut with a blue ribbon, because whether or not he ever figured out that Kyle loved him when they were young, Stan knows he's gay now and Kyle can do fruity things without fear. Kyle came out a few months after leaving for college by changing his Facebook status to 'gay.' Stan called him up as soon as the news made its way to him and asked him if Cartman had hacked his page.

"No," Kyle said, sitting on the floor outside his dorm room, his legs pulled to his chest. He'd expected his heart to be pounding when his moment finally came, tears imminent, but he felt calm, and glad that Stan had called. "It's true. Couldn't you tell?"

"Well. You didn't date, so. I don't know. That's cool, man." 

"Shut up," Kyle said, and he laughed. "I know it's cool." 

"Yeah, it's super cool - ha. Does your roommate know?"

"Uh-huh. That's why, uh. It's been easy, here, so I thought back home - you know, if anyone there has a problem with it, they can kiss my ass."

Stan had promised to kick the ass of anyone who had a problem with it, and so far there's been no need. Cartman gives Kyle a hard time about it when they run into each other, but that's rare, and his old insults fall pretty flat these days.

Kyle walks to Stan's house with the bread, feeling stupidly elated. It's still light out and will be for three more hours, though the days have begun to shorten slightly since the start of August. Kyle can hear a lawnmower buzzing in the distance, and he thinks again of sitting up in that tree house and watching Stan mow his yard, his fingers twitching against the boards at the sight of Stan's sweaty back. That might have been the first day when he'd wanted something more than sweet kisses from Stan. He'd wanted to peel Stan's clothes off and bathe him, putting his hands everywhere in the process. Not in reality -- his face would have melted off if Stan had accepted his advances back then -- but in theory.

"Bread!" Stan says when he answers the door, accepting the loaf in its crinkly packaging. He's shaved his face, and Kyle struggles not to find this flattering, as if Stan has groomed himself for their date. "I knew it." 

"Aw. I was hoping you'd be surprised."

"This is awesome, dude, thank you. Come in. I'm stealing more wine from my mom's collection, if you want some."

Tonight's bottle of wine is red, which makes Kyle feel classy, and he swirls it in his glass before sipping from it. Stan gets out a special knife to slice the zucchini bread, and Kyle's face gets hot as he watches. 

"I made it without nuts," he says. 

"Cool, thanks. I hate nuts. I'll get the butter." 

Kyle doesn't normally eat zucchini bread with butter, but he likes the idea. He grins when Stan pulls a bowl of big strawberries and a second bowl of what looks like homemade whipped cream from the fridge along with the butter. 

"I didn't grow those," Stan says when Kyle admires the strawberries. "Got them at the farmer's market this morning. I wasn't sure what you were going to cook, um. But I figure this goes with everything." 

"You know what I was thinking?" Kyle asks. 

"Huh?"

"We should -- if it's not too dangerous, we should have a little picnic up in the tree house. I was just feeling sentimental about it."

"That's funny," Stan says, and he grins.

"How come?"

"'Cause I just went up there this morning to see what shape it's in. It's actually not that bad -- it was kind of dirty, but, uh. I cleaned it up as much as I could."

They pack their picnic into the firewood basket from the living room, which is empty for the season. It's not as sweltering out as it was yesterday, and Stan's garden looks like it's been freshly watered, leaves glistening in the glow of the early evening sky. Stan climbs up into the tree house first, warning Kyle to be careful on the loose third step. Kyle passes him the picnic basket and follows him up.

"Oh my god!" Kyle says, laughing as he ducks into the door behind Stan. "It's so small!"

"I know, right? How did we ever fit here? And with the girls, too." 

"With Cartman, even!" 

Kyle sits down across from Stan, their knees almost touching. Though the roof is much too low for them to stand up, they've got room to maneuver behind and beside them, roughly ten square feet of unused space. The worn old boards smell lemony, as if Stan actually polished them with wood cleaner, and he might have. Stan unpacks their picnic, setting out the butter on a little plate with a knife. Kyle's chest tightens, and for a moment he's afraid he'll cry. He had his first kiss in this tree house. It was also his first real hint that he might not like girls.

"I can't believe we were ever this small," Kyle says, touching the place near the western-facing window where they etched their names into the wood. 

"I know," Stan says. He's slathering butter onto a slice of zucchini bread. Kyle dips a strawberry in the whipped cream. "It felt weird, being up here this morning. I mean, being up here without you." 

"You must have come up here without me all the time as a kid!"

"Nah, not really. Didn't see the point."

They drink their wine out of plastic souvenir hockey cups, having left the fancier glasses back in the kitchen. Stan praises the bread, and Kyle is impressed that Stan made his own whipped cream. He had no idea Stan could make anything but instant mac.

"This is so good," Stan says, again, going for a fourth slice. Kyle is blushing, thinking of where that zucchini has been. He's feeling sore, sitting on the wooden floor of the tree house and leaning against the wall. He's stretched his legs out, and so has Stan, his foot resting against Kyle's thigh.

"I'm glad you like it," Kyle says, and he realizes with some wine-dulled panic that he's beginning to get an erection. It's the scent of Stan's sweat, probably, and the shine of butter on his lips as he eats Kyle's bread. "It's, uh." _It's been in my ass_ , he thinks. _I made love to it!_ "It's good for you, too." He swallows heavily and pulls his knees up to his chest to conceal his stiffening cock. It's hot inside the tree house, and he moves closer to the window, hoping to catch a breeze.

"Are you dating anybody?" Stan asks when he pours more wine for both of them, half the bottle already gone. 

"Nah. I spent the whole summer working my ass off for Daryl at the restaurant. I just hope he remembers my name when I need a job in September. How about, um. Are you?"

"I would have stayed at Brandais for the summer if I was. I'm kinda. Taking a break."

"A break?"

"Yeah, from sex? Uh." He laughs. "That's a weird thing to say." 

"No, I -- I mean, I guess I am, too. I didn't want a lot of distractions this summer."

They're both quiet for a while, awkwardly munching on their picnic. Kyle is suddenly worried about Stan, who seems sad in his old way, though more subtly. He did find it strange when Stan mentioned that he'd be spending the entire summer in South Park. 

"It's not just the tree house," Stan says when Kyle meets his eyes again, sipping wine. "It's the whole town. It feels so weird to be here without you, dude." 

"Oh – yeah, I guess I can see that. Sorry, dude. I mean, I wish we could have hung out more, you know--"

"Jesus, Kyle, don't apologize." Stan laughs, and it sounds a little forced. "You had real shit to do for your career, and it's awesome. I'm glad you're doing the chef thing instead of, uh. The more science-y thing. Naw, you would have been bored out of your mind here all summer, like me."

"Maybe, but we could have – anyway, I'll be here for three more weeks, so. We'll hang out." 

"Obviously," Stan says. He surveys the food they've spread out. "This is the first time I've eaten all day."

"Fuck, me too." Kyle hadn't thought about that. He's starting to feel kind of drunk, and the stifling heat of the tree house isn't helping, but he doesn't want to leave yet. They should at least watch the sun set, which is something they used to do up here as kids, their little chins resting on the window ledge.

"You're sweating," Stan says. 

"Am I? Oh, yeah." Kyle looks down at himself, embarrassed by his pit stains. He didn't realize it had gotten that bad. Stan shrugs when Kyle looks up at him again. 

"Let's just take off our clothes," Stan says, and he pulls his shirt over his head. Kyle snorts, but Stan seems to be serious, unbuttoning his jeans. "I don't mean underwear," he says. "But, like, it's hot. Let's sit up here in our underwear and have our picnic like that."

"Okay," Kyle says slowly, uncertain. He's embarrassed to pull off his shirt, though it's a needed relief from the heat. He's not defined like Stan, and his chest has gotten puffy again recently, reverting to his junior high physique. He's taller now, so it's not as obvious, but he feels self-conscious about the muffin top over his briefs. It doesn't help that Stan laughs as Kyle pulls off his jeans. "What?" Kyle says.

"Look at your little underwear," Stan says. Kyle glances down at them, not even sure what he's wearing: they're nothing special, just a pair of navy cotton briefs. Stan is still laughing, and Kyle whips his jeans at him, annoyed. "No, it's great," Stan says. He's wearing boxers with a white and blue plaid pattern. They're sweaty, stuck to his thighs. Muscular thighs, Kyle notes, staring. Bigger and more firm-looking than he expected. 

"I don't see what's so hilarious," Kyle says, adjusting his underwear as he sits back down, some chub bulging over the waistline. "It's not like I'm wearing a thong."

"Kyle – is that a bikini cut?"

"I find it more comfortable, okay? The other kind digs into my thighs!"

Stan slumps down to the floor, still laughing. Kyle realizes too late that he's doomed: he's going to get hard just from looking at Stan like this, sweaty and loose-limbed in his damp boxer shorts, and without his jeans Kyle has no hope of concealing his erection. He sighs and lets his hands flop down to the floor of the tree house, feeling weirdly resigned. It's not unlike the devil-may-care feeling he had last night when he decided to fuck the zucchini. Maybe it's the wine.

"You crack me up," Stan says. He's smiling at Kyle fondly, which is almost enough to make Kyle forgive him for being so amused by the cut of Kyle's underwear.

"Clearly," Kyle says. "God, but I do feel better. This was a good idea." He reaches for the wine.

"What, stripping?"

"Yes, absolutely." Kyle dips his finger into the whipped cream and licks it off, pouring wine with his other hand. He looks up at Stan, intending to ask him if he wants a refill, and finds Stan staring at him strangely, his smile gone. "What?" Kyle says.

"Nothing, just." Stan is flushed from the heat, or maybe he's sunburned from gardening. "Do you, um. Like it?"

"The whipped cream? Yeah, it's awesome, dude. I've eaten like half the bowl already."

"It's melting," Stan says, eying it. He clears his throat and shifts, his foot bumping against Kyle's leg. "Sorry." 

"For what?" Kyle laughs and grabs for Stan's empty cup. "I think you need another drink."

"Yeah -- I do, yeah, thanks."

When the sun starts to go down, Kyle moves over to the window, closing his eyes against the hot breeze. Now he's certain that he's drunk, but it's a good feeling, because he's safe up here with Stan, who moves over next to him. The window seems so much smaller than it used to, and they have to move close to share their old sunset view. Stan smells ripe in an alluring way, and Kyle can smell the zucchini bread, too. 

"Did you ever really like doing this?" Stan asks. "Or did you just tolerate it because I was a fucked up dork who liked sunsets?"

"What?" Kyle says, alarmed. Stan is still staring out the window, his jaw shifting. "Dude, what are you talking about? Yeah, I liked it. I still like it -- it's peaceful. And you weren't fucked up." 

"No, I was." Stan sniffs and looks over at Kyle. "What's it like to fuck a dude?" he asks, and Kyle guffaws, then frowns when Stan doesn't seem to be kidding.

"Uhhh. Well, I don't know, Stan. What's it 'like' to fuck a girl?"

"It stresses me out. Sometimes I can't, like, perform." 

"Oh." Kyle touches Stan's shoulder, his throat clogging with preemptive sympathy. "Are you alright, dude?"

"Yeah, I just." Stan sighs and rests his elbow on the window ledge. "We never really talk about you being gay and all that."

"All that? What's there to talk about? I'd tell you if I was dating someone, but I'm not, so--"

"Right, but what have you done? Like, I told you when I lost my virginity, but you didn't tell me." 

Kyle scoffs and drinks more wine, not sure if he should be flattered or annoyed by Stan's sudden interest in the subject. Or maybe it's not so sudden.

"I was off at college when it happened," Kyle says. "And I was kind of embarrassed that it took me three years longer than you, okay, so I didn't exactly feel like bragging."

"Was it -- how did it go?" Stan looks genuinely, almost innocently fascinated, and Kyle laughs at his wide-eyed expression, though he's starting to feel uncomfortable. Was it something in the zucchini bread that brought this sudden weirdness out in Stan? He ate five pieces in a hurry, with lots of butter.

"It went fine." Kyle shrugs violently, remembering how frightened he'd been when Tyler lifted his legs onto his shoulders and really let loose. It had hurt, but Kyle had also liked it, and he was left very confused by the experience. None of this seems like appropriate information to share with Stan. 

"Fine?" Stan says. "That's it? Did you love him?"

"No! He was just some guy I was dating. Sort of. We hooked up a few times. It wasn't anything -- there weren't rose petals strewn around, okay? It was like your first time, with that Lindsey girl. I just wanted to fuck."

"So you. Put yours, in him?"

Kyle can't contain his laughter any longer, and he's relieved when Stan's serious expression crumbles and he laughs, too. He shoves Kyle lightly, and Kyle shoves back. 

"I'm just curious," Stan says, mumbling. "I want to know what it's like for you."

"Why?" 

"Because you're -- you're Kyle! You and I used to know everything, um, about each other." 

"Oh, god. Well, fine. I've tried topping and I didn't like it. All I could think about was the ass germs getting on my dick, even though I used a condom. I like it the other way around, with some guy dealing with my ass, because I know mine is clean. I never have sex without cleaning first. I like giving blow jobs. Is that enough to gross you out?"

Stan is doing that serious stare thing again, and when he swallows Kyle has to look away, lest he become excited. His eyes drop to Stan's lap, not intentionally, and he gulps in disbelief when he sees that Stan is getting hard.

"How do you clean it?" Stan asks, his tone grave and low.

"What!" Kyle laughs insincerely, waiting for Stan to admit this is a joke. When that doesn't happen, Kyle boggles at him. "How do you think, Stan? With soap and water!"

"Soo, in the shower?" Stan says, and Kyle thumps Stan's chest, wanting to throttle him but also sort of loving this. He feels exotic under Stan's curious gaze.

"Yes, in the shower." Kyle glances down at Stan's crotch again. He's still hard, but Kyle isn't sure he should mention it. Kyle is on the verge of arousal, but too confused by what's happening to really give in to it. 

"You mean, um. You, like. With your fingers?"

"Okay, stop. Enough. What is happening right now?"

"I think we should have sex," Stan says. He looks terrified by what he just said, like he might start crying any minute. "If you want." 

"What -- what? Why -- you're -- what?"

"I've just been really curious, Kyle! Ever since you came out. Maybe a little before that, too. I want to know what it's like. With a guy. With you, actually." 

"Are you drunk?" Kyle asks, feeling uprooted, and also like he might have actually poisoned Stan's straightness with that zucchini. 

"A little, but it's not -- it's not just the wine. I've been wondering for a while. Years."

"This is too crazy," Kyle says, muttering this into his cup. He drinks from it deeply, sad that the wine is almost gone, though he should probably be wanting to sober up so he can actually deal with this.

"It's not that crazy," Stan says softly, drunk and trying to be seductive. It actually works: when he places his hand on Kyle's ankle, Kyle's cock responds favorably, beginning to thicken with arousal.

"I don't want to have some weird experience that will end up making it unbearable to be around each other," Kyle says. Again, he feels like he did last night as he made quiet preparations to put a zucchini up his ass: is this really happening? Is it even possible? "You know, I -- I love you, dude. I always want you to be in my life. Sex could ruin that."

"No, it couldn't." Stan is rubbing Kyle's ankle now, lightly, with his fingertips. "I feel like maybe it could make us closer, even. I miss you."

"I'm right here," Kyle says, and he cups Stan's cheek, trying to be reassuring, and possibly also alluring. "But, I know. I miss you, too." In a way, he feels like he's been missing Stan for most of his life. He's long been nostalgic for the way things were before his lust for Stan complicated the enjoyment of simply being with him. Stan is smiling faintly, moving in for a kiss. Kyle is going to protest that kissing is way too intimate for friends with benefits experimental fucking, but he can't make himself say it when Stan's lips touch his. They're so warm, and Kyle can taste the zucchini bread, the slick press of Stan's tongue making Kyle's cock fill so fast that he gets a head rush.

"God," Stan whispers, and when they pull back to look at each other Kyle can't contain a drunken laugh, because Stan seems so hypnotized. Stan kisses him again, pressing him down to the floorboards as he does. When Stan is lying on top of him, mouthing hungrily at his neck, the reality of what's happening begins to dawn on Kyle: Stan Marsh is going to have sex with him. His ass clenches at the thought, and he remembers that he's sore. It doesn't matter, and it's even good. Kyle enjoys being fucked when he's a little raw from the last time, new friction dragging over his tender secret places. 

"Let me suck you," Kyle says, whispering this in Stan's ear, and he grins when he feels Stan shudder in response. Stan nods and moans, lifting his mouth to Kyle's again. 

"I've always thought a guy would be better at it," Stan says, rubbing his erection against Kyle's thigh. 

"How about me?" Kyle says. He feels incredibly desirable now, despite his chub. No one else has made him feel this way during sex, and they've barely started. Stan just looks so amazed already. "Did you think I would be good at it?" Kyle asks, and he pulls at Stan's bottom lip with his teeth, nibbling him there.

"Mhmm, yeah. Dude, I did think that. I do."

"How come?"

"You just, uh. Really give it your all when you want to impress someone. Seems like you'd be determined to do a really good job."

"Jesus," Kyle says, barely containing what he's really thinking, which is somewhere between _you're so cute_ and _I love you so much that this is certainly going to destroy me_. He doesn't care; he's wanted this for too long to protect himself from it, and if it destroys him, well: what a way to go.

"So," Stan says, still rubbing himself on Kyle's leg. "Do you want to see it?"

"Your dick? Yeah." 

"Maybe you could - beg?"

"You fucker," Kyle says when Stan grins. He flips Stan onto his back, aware that Stan is allowing him to do this, since his arms are all powerful now, from a summer spent gardening or whatever. Once he's on top, Kyle slides down and grips Stan's boxer shorts. He pauses to consider the oddity of the moment, watching Stan's lovely chest rise and fall as he pushes out heavy breaths. He's searching Kyle's face nervously, anticipating his next move. If they had spent the whole summer together, or gone to college together as they once discussed, Kyle wouldn't have dared to go along with this, even if it was Stan's idea, and he doubts Stan would have ever suggested it, wine or not. It's the distance between them that's made them brave enough to do this together, he thinks. Or maybe he's just drunk. Stan presses his hips upward and Kyle grins, because he's the one who's begging.

He slides Stan's boxers down, charmed by the way his cock sort of springs out of them, as if it's imbued with some of Stan's personality, and of course it is. Kyle sighs and tosses the boxers behind him, possibly out the door of the tree house altogether. He doesn't care enough to look: his eyes are glued to Stan's cock, which is big and hard for him, thick and uncut. Kyle's mouth waters as he presses his fingers into the foreskin, and his own cock throbs when Stan spreads his legs, arching up into Kyle's touch. 

"Damn, dude," Kyle says. "Nice." 

"Yeah?"

"Totally, like. It looks, um. Tasty." 

Stan snorts, and they both start laughing. Kyle wraps his hand around Stan's dick, moaning at the heat of it. Even here, in the stuffy tree house on a hot evening, that warmth feels so incredible in his grip. 

"Take yours off, too," Stan says.

Kyle sighs. He likes his dick, he's cool with it and all, but it's not as striking as Stan's. He supposes there's no sense in delaying, so he scrambles out of his underwear, kicking them into the corner of the tree house. When he's on his knees in front of Stan, being surveyed, he touches his dick self-consciously. 

"I like them better that way," Stan says, staring at it. "They look so much cleaner." 

"Cleaner -- you mean, circumsized?"

"Yeah." Stan looks up at him shyly. "I don't know if I want to suck on one, though. Full disclosure."

"Oh, I don't give a shit." Kyle pushes Stan's shoulders down, clambering onto him. "I'll suck you off for free," he says, murmuring this into Stan's ear. Stan groans and grabs hold of him, his hands sliding down to Kyle's ass, which makes him gasp and thrust against Stan's hipbone. 

"It feels so normal or something," Stan says as he massages Kyle's ass cheeks, and Kyle nods. He's surprised by this, too. He did so much thinking about what it would be like with Stan over the years that he's surprised he's not weeping or having a seizure now that it's actually, somehow, happening.

"It's the time of year, maybe," Kyle says. "I feel like we're between universes. Or epochs." 

"Epochs," Stan says, and he snickers. They're humping each other lazily, smiling at each other with the kind of adoring acceptance that Kyle can't believe he didn't think to include in his fantasies about this moment. Of course this built-in adoration is why he's wanted to do this with Stan, who's always made him feel cool in a way that no one else has.

"When's the last time you had your cock sucked?" Kyle asks. He reaches down to fondle Stan, wanting to draw this out if not tease him. Stan huffs and humps Kyle's fingers.

"It's been a while," he says. "Since - May, I guess. End of last semester."

"May! You're so spoiled. Well, was it good head?"

"Nah, I was drunk and she got offended when I was taking too long to come and kind of falling asleep."

"Stan!"

"I know, I felt really bad! I thought we were going to fuck for real but she didn't have a condom and neither did I."

"Hmm, that reminds me." Kyle sits up, straddling Stan's chest. "I don't have one on me." 

"Me either, but listen. After that blow job I got kind of paranoid, because I don't know that girl, not really, so I got tested to make sure I don't have herpes or whatever you can get from a BJ. And I'm clean!"

"Oh, good. I am, too." Kyle gets tested once a year, on his birthday, and he hasn't come anywhere near another person's cock since then. He thinks of the zucchini and wonders if he'll ever be able to tell Stan about it. Probably not.

"Am I putting too much pressure on you?" Stan asks, and he takes hold of Kyle's hands in a childlike way that Kyle finds adorable, lifting them up. "You don't have to do the blow job if you don't want to."

"Of course I want to! I'm just delaying to build the mood." 

"Oh, okay." 

"Well, I'll do it now, though." 

"Alright." Stan pulls Kyle's hands outward, making his back bow as he swoops up to kiss him. "Kyle," he says, and he smiles. "I love you, too, alright?"

"Oh -- alright." It's the one thing, perhaps, that might derail this. Kyle feels suddenly naked, as if he just now lost his clothes.

"You said it before," Stan says, his expression growing uncertain, worried. "And I -- I didn't say it back, but I do. Love you." 

"Oh, I know you do." Kyle tries to laugh it off, leaning down to peck Stan's lips. "You're my best friend, and -- alright, I'll suck your dick now."

He's glad for the excuse to break eye contact, his heart pounding as he crawls down to put his face in Stan's crotch. Stan's cockhead is wet, and Kyle laps at the precome, moaning at the taste. It's not particularly delicious but it's _Stan_. When Kyle takes him in he thinks of the zucchini, which was fatter, and how he'd enjoyed its texture last night. It pales, of course, in comparison to this: Stan's heat and salt in his mouth, the tang of his sweat and the silky slide of his foreskin. He takes Stan in as deeply as he can, glad to have Stan's strong thighs to brace his hands on.

"Fuck, dude," Stan says, pushing his fingers into Kyle's curls. "That's so good, Jesus, that's just what I needed." 

Kyle sighs around Stan's cock, enjoying the thought that he's giving Stan something he needs. He imagines Stan itching for this for months, alone with his garden, his heavy cock hanging untended between his legs like overripe fruit. He wonders how long it will take to suck Stan to completion; his thighs are already trembling under Kyle's hands, and his grunting sounds increasingly desperate. Kyle is surprised when Stan whines and pushes him off, slowly.

"What's wrong?" Kyle asks, panting. "I was -- really enjoying that, um. Were you?"

"Yeah, but." Stan sits up and grabs Kyle's face. "I want to suck you," he says, whispering this for some reason.

"Oh. What made you change your mind?"

"I haven't." Stan wet his lips and swallows. "I, uh. Would you be into me doing the other side?"

"My -- you want to eat my ass? Seriously?"

"Not just that. I mean, yes, but. I want to fuh-- finger it, if that's okay." 

"Okay! Jesus, Stan, yes, that's great! You can fuck it for all I care."

"Are you serious?" Stan asks, his grip on Kyle's face tightening. 

"Yes! I thought that was the plan the whole time."

"Oh." Stan kisses him, and Kyle falls into Stan's lap, moaning at the sensation of Stan's big dick pressed to his crack. He looks around frantically for lube, not wanting to spoil the moment by having one of them leave the tree house. They've got two options: butter and whipped cream, both melty. Kyle smiles to himself and hugs Stan hard. They'll use the whipped cream, he decides, since Stan made it for him. It's strangely perfect.

By the time Stan is lapping at the whipped cream he's smeared onto Kyle's hole, Kyle can't deny that something magical has happened. He's worked some spell on Stan, and he doesn't even care; this is too good for guilt to enter into it. Stan keeps pushing more whipped cream into Kyle with his fingers before leaning down to lick and suck it out of him, and Kyle might come just like this, not even touching his dick. It feels so incredibly good, after making himself sore on the zucchini yesterday, to have Stan's sugary tongue soothing over the raw spots. He's very glad he cleaned himself especially thoroughly this morning in the shower, in the process getting all the baby oil out. This is the kind of deep tongue fucking and hungry hole-sucking he never could have enjoyed if he wasn't certain of his cleanliness. 

"You have to fuck me now," Kyle says when he can't take it anymore, delirious with pleasure and determined to come on Stan's cock, not before. He reaches for Stan, who hesitates only briefly before kissing Kyle. Never in his life did Kyle expect to allow someone to kiss his mouth after eating his ass, but fuck it, this is Stan, and he tastes like whipped cream and red wine.

Kyle can't help but laugh when Stan rubs whipped cream all over his dick, but he keeps it quiet and Stan doesn't seem to notice. He falls onto Kyle again, huffing his breath against Kyle's mouth as his dick prods uncertainly at Kyle's sticky, tingling hole. 

"Use your hand," Kyle says. Stan keeps bumping his cock against Kyle's ass like he thinks it's just going to slide in magically. "To guide it in, I mean," he says when Stan blinks at him. 

"Oh, umm. You're ready?"

"Stan! Yes! Oh, god, I'm so ready--"

"Dude—" 

They kiss for a while, and Kyle realizes Stan is probably nervous, but if he doesn't go in soon he's going to need to apply a fresh layer of whipped cream. Kyle reaches down between them, grabs Stan's cock and lines him up properly. They both groan when he shoves in, and Kyle hisses as it drags over his soreness from last night, his head falling back.

"That's okay?" Stan says, panting.

"Yeahh, don't stop. Stann, ah, god."

Kyle tries to force himself to stop reveling in the delightful deviancy of this moment enough to appreciate that something emotionally monumental is occurring, but it's all happening too fast and he can only enjoy the pure physicality of it for now. They're in their tree house, fucking with whipped cream and kissing with breathless desperation -- despite the fact that Stan ate Kyle's ass, not to mention the zucchini that was in his ass last night. It's bizarrely appropriate, the only kind of first time they ever could have had together: an exceptional and ridiculous one. 

"Should I go slow?" Stan asks, his eyes darkening in a way that tells Kyle he doesn't want to.

"No," Kyle says. "But – be careful. If the whipped cream starts to dry, put more on."

"Kyle, oh, god, Kyle—" Stan kisses his cheeks, moaning. "I'm not doing this right, for you. I wanted to do it better."

"Stan." Kyle squeezes hard around Stan's dick, groaning and trying to make himself comprehend how important this is, the fullness inside him that is Stan. "You're doing fine, okay? This is perfect, it's – our special place, our tree house."

"Jesus," Stan says, and for a second he looks like he'll cry. Kyle kisses him so that he won't, and Stan snaps his hips, moaning into Kyle's mouth. Much too soon, after some frantic thrusting that makes Kyle growl and clench around him, Stan comes and slumps down onto him, whimpering. "I'm sorry," he says, murmuring this against Kyle's neck, his chest expanding and contracting between Kyle's tightly wrapped legs. "Sorry, sorry."

"Shh, it's okay. I wasn't up for a long one, anyway." 

"You're still hard, though."

"Ah, that's true, but—"

"I'm gonna suck your dick," Stan says, sniffling as he lifts his face to Kyle's. He kisses the tip of Kyle's nose and closes his eyes. "I could get better at this," he says. "If you helped." 

"We've got three weeks," Kyle says, and he smiles when Stan nods and kisses him deeply, his hand sliding down to grip Kyle's dick. It doesn't take much: a few clumsy strokes and Kyle is coming, his ass spasming crazily around Stan's softening cock. 

"Sorry," Stan says again, kissing Kyle's face as he shudders beneath him. 

"For -- what?"

"I didn't suck your dick, I just said I would."

"Well, that's fine, it's just fine, c'mere." They kiss for a long time, drowsily, until Kyle worries that he'll fall asleep like this, naked in the tree house with Stan still inside him. Then he worries how they'll get down in the state they're in. 

It happens in stages. They murmur to each other for a while, drunk and sleepy, and help each other dress. They leave the remains of the picnic up in the tree house, with the exception of the three remaining slices of zucchini bread, which might have attracted raccoons. Kyle climbs down first, then waits at the bottom with his arms outstretched in case Stan falls, but he makes it without even stumbling. They go into the house and Kyle thinks of showering: he's got whipped cream in his ass, Stan's come leaking out of him, and he reeks of sex sweat. He decides he'll just rest a little in Stan's bed first, and moans in gratitude when Stan helps him back out of his clothes. He's falling into a deep sleep by the time Stan climbs under the sheets with him, naked and clingy.

"That was so not how I imagined it," Stan says, his lips tickling over the tiny hairs on the rim of Kyle's ear. 

"It was good, though," Kyle says. He's never felt so ready to dissolve into the relief of a good sleep, his ass burning from the combination of zucchini and cock, Stan holding him, the air conditioning blasting. "So good, Stan, really, so good." He's mumbling, and he slides his hand onto Stan's ass under the sheets. It's very firm. Kyle will take more time to appreciate the touchable details of Stan's body later. For now, he's got to sleep.

He wakes at dawn, his head aching terribly and his mouth dry, ass sore. Worse, the cheeks are glued together with a horrifying combination of semen and sugar, and he smells like a candied whore house mattress. The memories of exactly how things played out in the tree house come back slow and hazy, a painful fever dream that some wanton imaginary Kyle enjoyed while he, the real Kyle, will have to deal with the fallout. Stan is asleep beside him, turned onto his stomach, his arm pushed up under his pillow and covering half his face. All of the doubt and insecurity that Kyle has managed to put off for the past two days comes at him full force, a tidal wave of anxiety that makes the piercing pain in his head worse. He wants to move, to run away, to hide somewhere, but he's so drained that he can only lie there feeling like shit. Stan got drunk, wanted a piece of ass, and Kyle pressed his into Stan's face without hesitation. He's never, ever thought he'd be capable of such careless idiocy, even after the zucchini incident.

"Fuck," Stan says when he wakes up. An indeterminable amount of time has passed, and Kyle has remained perfectly still. He's beginning to feel nauseous in addition to the horrible headache. Stan rolls onto his side, facing Kyle, and moans. "I'm so hungover, Jesus," he says, his voice all scratchy. "You?"

"Um. Yeah. Do you have any water?" Kyle is incapable of even craning his neck to search the bed stand. 

"Yeah," Stan says, and he reaches for a plastic bottle that's half empty. He watches Kyle gulp from it and touches his hair, which is a matted mess. "I texted your mom," he says.

"You -- what?"

"You passed out last night, and I figured she'd worry. I didn't want to wake you, so. I just sent her a text saying you were gonna crash here." 

"Oh." Kyle sits up, annoyed by this, though it's also thoughtful and cute. "Did she -- did you tell her I was drinking?"

"Nah, but I guess I implied it?"

Kyle harrumphs and drinks more water. Stan doesn't seem horrified by what happened, which is what Kyle spent the past hour dreading. He allows this knowledge to trickle in, slowly, past the pain that is otherwise occupying his mind. Everything aches: his neck, shoulders, jaw, head, and his ass is an unclean, overused wasteland. 

"You okay?" Stan asks, again. He's touching Kyle's back now, peering up at him.

"I really need a shower," Kyle says. He glances down at Stan and smiles apologetically. "We were totally out of control," he says, giving Stan an out. 

"I hurt you?" 

"No, just." Kyle is actually far more sore from his zucchini adventure, though the addition of actual sex during the healing process was equally unwise. "Just, um. Well, Stan, we fucked. You fucked me, so. That's a thing that happened."

"Are you -- dude, are you mad at me? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -- when you were drinking, that was wrong of me, you just didn't seem that out of it--" 

"I wasn't! But I'm the gay one, and you're not. So I'm left holding the bag, right?"

"Holding?" Stan sits up beside him, his arm sliding around Kyle's waist. "What bag?"

"It's an expression." 

"Yeah, but what do you mean? Dude, you are so pissed off, I can tell. Do you want to hit me or something?"

"Stan! Why would I want to hit you? What's even happening?" Kyle feels like he might weep, but he's too tired to do anything but drink water and wince. 

"Here," Stan says, and he puts two fingers on Kyle's chin, turning Kyle's face toward his. "This -- here." 

It's different from last night's kisses, more timid, and neither of them have very good breath at the moment. But it's lucid, sweet, and reassuring. Kyle peeks at Stan afterward, his fingers pushing in to the plastic ridges of the nearly empty water bottle, making popping sounds to fill the silence. 

"I feel like I blew it," Stan says, and he moans, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "I know I came too fast. Usually I have the opposite problem. But I could learn, I could get better, if you wanted to, um. Be together like that, again."

"Of course I do. Stan, god! It's not the physical part I'm worried about. Honestly, that went great. It's the other stuff. I, ah. I'm very attached to you. In a way you might find irritating, if we continue this." 

"Kyle!" Stan laughs and hugs him, and Kyle takes the opportunity to cling, wrapping his arms tight around Stan's chest. "Have I ever complained about being attached to you in the past -- what is it? Twenty years?"

"But we live in different states, and, just. What is going on?"

"I don't know! Something good, though. Something really good."

Kyle still feels disoriented, but he basks in Stan's aftercare despite his confusion, accepting Advil for his headache and drinking orange juice when Stan brings a tall glass of it upstairs. When he's feeling slightly more human he heads for the shower across the hall, and he's glad when Stan follows. 

"Do you mind?" Stan asks, peeking behind the curtain as Kyle adjusts the water temperature. 

"Come here," Kyle says, and he puts his hand out. Stan takes it and steps in behind him, smiling. He puts his hands on Kyle's hips, pulling him closer, and Kyle presses his finger into Stan's left nipple, beginning to get hard as the water warms up against his back. Stan kisses the top of his head and Kyle sighs, wanting to ask him a thousand more questions to clarify exactly how this is going to play out, though he knows Stan doesn't have the answers himself. "When are your parents getting back?" he asks instead.

"Later today. It's still early, we've got time."

"Time for what?" Kyle asks. He smiles and turns his face away when Stan leans in to kiss him. "I need to rest for a while," Kyle says, embarrassed. 

"Oh, yeah, I didn't mean to, um. Do you need, like. Help, cleaning?"

Kyle doesn't; he's something of an expert in cleaning his own ass. But he likes the idea of Stan examining the tender state of things back there, especially if there's soap and hot water involved. He rests his elbows on the shower wall and arches his back, peeking at Stan when he hesitates. 

"You can," Kyle says, softly. Stan is doing that amazed stare thing again. Kyle has no idea where this is coming from, except perhaps from the alchemy of the zucchini bread, but he's still unable to feel any guilt for having done accidental sex magic. It's not like there's someone out there who could love Stan more than him, anyway.

Kyle rests his forehead against the tile and closes his eyes while Stan cleans him gently, Kyle quickly becoming so relaxed that Stan's soapy fingers slide in easily. It's the opposite of Kyle's old fantasy of preparing himself for virgin Stan, and it's insanely good, this reversal. When Kyle hisses at the sting of the soap Stan whispers apologies into his ear, and Kyle shakes his head. 

"It doesn't hurt," he says, though it does, a little. He finally understands what he likes about this contradiction, here with the only person he would trust to clean his ass, despite Stan's inexperience: with Stan, immense comfort follows the hint of danger so quickly that it's like the two are connected, inseparably enjoyable. Stan kisses Kyle's neck and slides his hand down to squeeze his dick, which has gotten hard throughout this process. 

"Is that clean enough?" he asks. 

"Um. Your shower head detaches, right?"

It does: Kyle comes in in his own hand while Stan uses it on him. He sinks down to his knees when he's done, legs shaking.

"Are you alright?" Stan asks, and Kyle answers this by taking Stan's dick into his mouth. It tastes even better now, clean and thickening further on Kyle's tongue, Stan's hands moving through his curls with loving appreciation as he works.

Afterward, they sleep for hours, the sun rising fully and the day warming to a boiling heat outside, and they're only moved to get dressed when they hear the garage door opening. Kyle is groggy when they make pleasantries with Sharon and Randy down in the kitchen. He knows he should probably go home, already feeling too clingy, but Stan wants to play video games, and they end up burning away another three hours doing so, splitting the last of the zucchini bread at one point. 

Kyle plans to go home for dinner, but before he does he follows Stan out to the backyard to watch him tend the garden. The heat is lessening somewhat, the sun beginning to sink. It's the right time of day for watering vegetables, apparently. Kyle drags one of Sharon's sun loungers over to watch Stan spray his produce with the hose. The water looks like liquid gold when it catches the light at certain angles, and Stan seems so grown up, caring for his plants, the stubble on his cheeks already returning. Despite this, he keeps glancing over at Kyle and smiling in a way that's very boyish, reminding Kyle of that day when he watched Stan mow the lawn from the tree house, how they'd waved to each other at intervals. 

"Want to take some more zucchini home?" Stan asks when Kyle finally says he's got to go, having promised to join Stan tomorrow at Stark's Pond for fishing. "I've got so many." 

"Yeah, you do," Kyle says, wistfully, as if Stan is being metaphorical. He is, at least from Kyle's perspective. Stan is overflowing with a bounty of goodness that Kyle wants inside him any way he can have it. He kisses Stan on the lips, wondering if Stan's parents are watching from the kitchen. "But I'm good for now, thanks." 

"See you tomorrow," Stan says, holding on to Kyle's hand as he pulls away. "Rest up."

Kyle walks home feeling buzzed, though he's had nothing to drink tonight and doesn't want to get anywhere near wine for a while. He allows himself to daydream about working someplace close to wherever Stan will get his MS in Horticulture, and the little house they could rent, something with a yard big enough for a garden. Maybe at that point, in this theoretically secure future where Stan sleeps with him every night, Kyle could suggest they bring some produce into the bedroom. He has a feeling Stan would be open to it: not just the vegetable kink but the whole thing, an entire sprawling future together, and by the time he reaches his house an overgrown garden of hopes and plans has spilled over the neatly measured walls he once tried to put up around his love for Stan.


End file.
